


Peacock

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [6]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Biting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: Watching Tommy work the room this evening, he looks like he has a cast iron grip on fucking everything. It’s almost impossible to imagine he’s the same man who melts under Alfie’s touch, submits to his voice, bends to his will. Eventually.It was a small gesture, insignificant really, but it has lit a fuse of jealousy in Alfie that is now smouldering dangerously.





	Peacock

**Author's Note:**

> Still set in season 3, just before the famous visit to the Russians' treasury. This is part of an emerging relationship AU, so go read the rest of the works if you want the wider context, but you can probably figure it out just fine as a one-off.

It was Tommy’s idea to meet here, at his own private members’ club, in the heart of London. It's not what Alfie would have chosen, but he can admit that it makes a pleasant change from the bakery, or his own house. Meeting in public rather than in secret is a novelty to be enjoyed he figures, especially since it's been a while. It’s not really Alfie's style this whole place, overly lavish, grandiose in a rather obvious way, but he relishes the opportunity to quietly observe Tommy on his own turf. He deliberately chose this secluded corner, slotting himself into the plush booth seating to wait out of sight, cane resting at his side. He leans back against the velvet cushions, ostensibly relaxed, although his cunning eyes skim the room carefully and one knee bounces gently beneath the table. He’s been nursing the same measure of rum since he arrived, ordered largely for show, although he’s surprised when he looks down to see that the glass is nearly empty. He rarely drinks, which probably explains the nervous energy thrumming through him – the warm buzz of anticipation. He rolls the glass distractedly between his fingertips and watches the wealthy and the frivolous stroke each others’ egos and spend their money.

A loud, exaggerated giggle draws his attention to the far side of the room, where a gazelle-like creature in a green dress and lace gloves is struggling to suppress her giddy laughter. She’s clearly wealthy, clearly drunk and clearly used to getting what she wants. Beside her stands Tommy, dressed to kill in an immaculate navy suit and pinstripe shirt, politely disentangling himself from the hand she is trailing down his back. Alfie swallows the last of his rum quickly, together with the sour taste in his mouth, wondering all the time whether this particular form of voyeurism was a good idea after all. He doesn’t like others’ hands on Tommy, doesn’t like their eyes on him either it seems. Which is unfortunate, because if there's one thing Tommy attracts it is stares. Those fucking eyes...

It’s not that Alfie can even blame people for wanting to watch Tommy; seeing him here, in action, the man is impressive. His presence alone commands attention. He glides smoothly between influential punters – charming men and women with equal ease – seducing those he talks to and drawing admiring looks from those he doesn't. And yet something about him radiates danger too; his quiet form of intimidation leaving no doubt as to who is in charge. Whilst Alfie rules via fear and fury, Tommy’s power is different. He's rising up the ranks, more manipulative certainly, but more genteel as well. He hasn’t once looked in Alfie’s direction, has given no indication that he knows Alfie is here, but when he leans in close to the ear of one terrified-looking waiter, he appears moments later at Alfie’s table with a glass of rum in hand. “Courtesy of Mr. Shelby, sir,” the boy stammers.

It makes Alfie smile. When exactly did Tommy spot him he wonders? How much of this display has been for his benefit? An attempt to reassert his authority isn’t exactly unwarranted, given the last time they met Tommy was horrifyingly incapacitated by a migraine, ended up a shivering wreck in Alfie’s arms. Tommy had tried so hard to keep that weakness a secret, the thought of his injured pride makes Alfie’s chest plummet briefly. He looks well tonight though, tired, as usual, but stronger than Alfie has seen him of late. It’s entirely understandable that tonight he wants to remind Alfie of his public persona, his very real and growing power. And it’s good to see him on display, like a beautiful peacock, admired by everyone around. Alfie’s glad that he chose his own best suit this evening, black of course, simple but well cut, with a good white shirt and his goat-head cane. Not that he’s trying to impress anyone, that’s really not his concern, but it doesn’t do to be shown up in his own city either.

He’s missed Tommy these past two weeks, the man’s myriad schemes and expansion plans having kept them apart for longer than has become usual. This Russian business seems to be at the heart of everything right now, and much as it makes Alfie extremely uncomfortable, there’s no stopping Thomas Shelby when he’s set his mind on a plan. _Chutzpah_ his mother would’ve called it, Tommy’s aggressive form of ambition and self-belief. It’s always impressed Alfie, from their very first meeting, although even then he thought Tommy had an unnerving disregard for his own personal safety. Watching Tommy work the room this evening though, he looks like he has a cast iron grip on fucking _everything_. It’s almost impossible to imagine he’s the same man who melts under Alfie’s touch, submits to his voice, bends to his will. Eventually.

That thought sends a ripple of desire through Alfie’s body. He wants to take this public Thomas Shelby, the one who wears his perfect suits like a form of armour, and fucking _strip_ him. Dismantle the facade, expose his vulnerabilities, reveal the panting boy beneath. When the _fuck_ is he going to come over and sit down? Tommy hasn’t so much as glanced in Alfie’s direction for the past half an hour, apparently engrossed in his conversations with various groups of pompous businessmen or braying young socialites. He’s chatting to a wealthy looking couple now, a fat, balding man in a bad suit and his alarmingly attractive wife. The fact isn’t lost on Alfie. It’s starting to grate on his nerves in fact, admiration and appreciation giving way to annoyance, because he actually has more _important_ things to do than sit and wait for the infuriatingly beautiful man he is becoming increasingly obsessed with. Not more _enjoyable_ things, admittedly, but definitely more important. This might be Tommy’s club, but that is absolutely no fuckin’ excuse to leave Alfie sitting here like an abandoned shoe.

When he finally looks in Alfie’s direction, clearly aware of exactly where he’s been sitting all along, Tommy doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow in recognition, just heads over towards the table with that inimitable stride. When he’s within striking distance he clears his throat, tugs uneasily at the pristine white cuffs that protrude from his dark jacket and ventures, “evening Alfie.”

Alfie doesn’t respond immediately, too busy filing away that unusually nervous sleeve gesture, before replying, “indeed it is Thomas, indeed it is.”

There is the slightest glint of a smile in Tommy’s eyes at the familiarity of the phrasing, but it doesn’t reach his mouth. “Nice little place you’ve got ‘ere. Subtle,” Alfie smirks, waving his hand at the gaudy gold-plated ceilings and classical murals that cover the walls. “It’s funny, I never had you down as a fan of the Greek myths, mate.”

“Appeals to the establishment,” Tommy deadpans, “helps them maintain their sense of superiority. Why, fancy somewhere more down to earth?”

“Yeah, I do as it happens. But not before I’ve eaten something, so do us a favour and get your chef to work.”

The food, when it arrives, is good – surprisingly good for a club run by the man who rarely bothers with sustenance in anything other than liquid form. It’s nice to share a meal in public, no one is going to question two relatively well known figures conducting business in a club. Turns out they do actually have valid business dealings to discuss tonight – namely the contents of that treasury the Russians are hiding. Tomorrow is the day they visit the hidden vault to check the goods. Tommy seems anxious but excited at the prospect; Alfie knows too much about what kind of people these Russians are to feel anything other than trepidation. He’s not sure Tommy fully understands what he’s got himself into here, but he’s agreed to play his part and so he will. Perhaps he’ll talk to him more another time.

Right now, Alfie just wants to get Tommy out of this club and out of that suit, a welcome distraction from the whole unpleasant business. “Savoy, room 252,” he says quietly when he’s finished his meal and they’ve discussed all they can. Tommy doesn’t acknowledge the clear hint, just clicks his fingers at an approaching waiter and orders more whisky, before lighting another cigarette. Alfie stares at him as he slides awkwardly out of his seat, “you’ve kept me waiting once already this evening, Shelby,” he mutters as he places his hat on his head. “I won’t take kindly if it happens again.” The waiter returns at that moment, placing a cut crystal glass in front of Tommy just as Alfie turns towards the exit.

“Goodnight Alfie,” Tommy chirps, raising his glass. Alfie can only hope it's for the sake of appearances. _Arrogant fucker_ is all he can think as he leaves the club, praying Tommy will follow soon.

————

He’s been in his hotel room for an hour, a whole miserable, interminable hour, before there is finally a knock at the door. Alfie is in the midst of lamenting the poor quality of the sheets, the lack of hot water and the non-arrival of his tea. Frankly this whole establishment has gone to shit as far as he's concerned. He’s brushed his teeth, stripped to his undershirt and all but given up on any likelihood of Tommy appearing. The man has been so long now that he is seething; being kept waiting in a club is one thing, there's no need to compound it by being kept waiting in his own fucking hotel room. He has shot people for less. Considerably less.

He yanks the door handle open roughly and immediately turns on his heal, striding towards the bed as Tommy follows him into the room.

“Finally decided to fucking turn up I see,” he snarls without even turning round. “I mean please, if I’m keeping you from something, feel absolutely free to fuck off and come back in your own time eh? Take a couple more hours!”

“Alfie, I’m sorry,” Tommy says in a conciliatory tone, “I had to deal with…” but he’s cut off before he can finish that sentence.

“I mean if you need some more time to fan your feathers in front of the great and good of London, you just go ahead sweetie,” Alfie rants, waving his arm to the side dismissively. “I’ll wait here till you’re ready to drop by...like some fucking old maid at a bus stop.”

It’s somewhat of an overreaction, probably, but Alfie can’t help it if that’s how he’s wired. The connections in his brain are taut and tenuous at the best of times, occasionally, under extreme provocation, some of said connections do just snap. Well, maybe more than occasionally, but that is his fucking _right_ , innit?

“Have I done something wrong?” Tommy enquires calmly, as Alfie paces the room, clearly on a roll now…

“Nah... fuck it, why not bring one of those mindless heiresses back with you? You two have a good time, I’ll just wait in the bathroom till you’re done,” Alfie taunts.

“Alfie, what the fuck?” Tommy says, “What heiresses? What are you _talking_ about?”

Alfie turns to look at him now, closing the distance between them, squaring up to Tommy where he stands beside the bed. Alfie glares at him, suddenly consumed by the image of that woman’s lace-gloved hand on Tommy’s back. It was a small gesture, insignificant really, but it has lit a fuse of jealousy in Alfie that is now smouldering dangerously. He is suddenly privy to an unwelcome truth that he has hitherto been ignoring – the fact is that women _like_ Thomas Shelby. They court his attention and seek out his presence. Their eyes follow him when he enters a room and he is comfortable in their company in a way Alfie never has been. Tommy has loved women before, he loved Grace and no doubt, he’ll fucking love one again. And what is Alfie supposed to do with that?

“I have not been fanning my bloody feathers,” Tommy adds, cutting across his thoughts, a confused expression knitting his brow. “It’s just business.” Alfie can feel his anger rising dangerously.

“Just business…yeah,” he says, his voice menacingly thoughtful.

“I could hardly leave at the same time as you, could I?” Tommy adds defensively.

“No, clearly not when there were so many more _interesting_ distractions,” Alfie notes. And he’s giving away his insecurities here, but he can’t fucking help it. He doesn’t doubt that Tommy wants him, _needs_ him in ways neither of them fully understand. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come to his senses, won’t fuck off and leave him as soon as he gets a better offer.

“Are you seriously suggesting that I was interested in any of those women?” Tommy asks.

“You tell me mate, you looked interested enough from where I was sitting.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Tommy spits, venom lacing his words. He shakes his head and then he smirks…fucking smirks…like this is all some great big _joke_. And that is it. Alfie has gone from a smouldering fuse to waist-high flames in the space of a split second.

“Oh, ridiculous am I?” he bellows, “for _what_ exactly? For watching you charm those delicate creatures in their silk dresses and fur stoles? For thinking your life might be far easier with one of them pretty women on your arm? For thinking, right, that you might want a partner you don’t have to hide? A mother for your child?”

Tommy is just staring at him incredulously, mouth hanging open.

“Which part is so fucking ridiculous?” Alfie asks, glaring intently at Tommy, chin jutting out, chest heaving. To be fair, Tommy looks pretty horrified, but Alfie can’t stop himself, not now. The dam has given and the words are flooding out of him whether he wants them to or not.

“What am I, eh? A passing fad? Some respite for a grieving husband? There are things I can never give you Tommy. Status. Respectability. I’ll never be worthy of your beautiful suits or your charitable foundations.”

There is a momentary pause before Tommy rips his jacket off, growling, “fuck the fucking suits, Alfie” as he flings it to the floor. “You think that’s what I care about, eh? No suit is ever gonna make me respectable. No charitable foundation either. And if you think I have the slightest bit of interest in those ridiculous women at the club, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“You loved Grace,” Alfie counters, knowing he’s on shaky ground here.

“She’s gone, Alfie,” is all Tommy says. His voice is quiet and he looks at his feet. “People go.”

Alfie wishes he could be satisfied with that, but he can’t seem to help himself,

“you could love another,” he says.

Tommy looks up at him sharply, and for a moment Alfie thinks he has ruined everything, said too much, but before he knows it there are hands on the side of his head and Tommy crashes into him, kissing him urgently, ferociously, pushing his whole body up against him. As answers go, it is fairly unequivocal, and Alfie feels the heat rise in his belly, the urge to wrestle back control. He pushes Tommy down onto the bed with strong hands, falling onto him with one knee between his thighs. 

And then Tommy is laying still beneath Alfie, looking slightly startled, arms above his head. Alfie stares down at him through lust-glazed eyes. He leans down to undo the expensive blue tie, pulling roughly at the knot because he couldn’t give a shit about the pristine armour Tommy wears. Right now, he just wants the man beneath it, _all_ of him.

“Strip,” he snarls, his voice low and needy, husky with barely controlled desire.

He watches Tommy swallow deeply as he processes the order, throat bobbing slowly, a fleeting look of panic crossing his brow. And these are the reactions Alfie drinks in, physical tics that he is slowly recognising as precursors to Tommy’s submission. He always fights the urge to give in, even as he craves the safety of Alfie’s control. Alfie watches as the emotions play out across the angles of Tommy's face.

“I said fucking _strip_ ” Alfie repeats, calm but serious this time. He watches as Tommy’s shoulders slacken, his eyelids blink, it almost looks like relief in his eyes as his fingers creep up to work the buttons on his waistcoat. He doesn’t stop looking at Alfie, just shuffles up the bed as he sheds layers, removing cufflinks, shirt, undervest. Alfie yanks at his trousers, impatient to have them off, and finally his man is naked, all pale skin and taut muscle, like some elegant Roman statue. He gazes guilelessly up at Alfie and as if he can read his mind says, “I’m _yours_ Alfie. Only yours.”

He wants to believe it, wants to believe it more than anything, that this beautiful, haunted human-being is his. He closes his eyes and hugs the words in his mind, _I’m yours Alfie_. But unwelcome thoughts are crowding him, convincing him this is too good to be true. Tomorrow that Russian Duchess will be there. He’s _seen_ the way she looks at Tommy, doe-eyed and seductive. He’s sure Tommy slept with her… whored himself out to find where the vault was hidden… and he has no fucking right to be jealous, it happened before – well – whatever _this_ is happened. And yet looking down at Tommy like this, naked, exposed, Alfie can’t help but torture himself with the details – did that bitch make Tommy groan? Did his legs tremble? Did he look at her when he came?

Alfie runs his fingers through his hair – he’s got to stop – these thoughts make him sick to his stomach. _I’m yours Alfie_ …the words run through his mind, taunting him, willing him to believe. He opens his eyes with a surge of clarity.

“Stay still for me, love,” he says, “stay still and I’ll believe it.”

He crawls slowly up the bed, straddling Tommy, and leans down to lick at his chest. He starts by teasing the right nipple with his teeth, sucking hard on the smooth nub. Tommy gasps and pushes up towards the touch, arms obediently flung wide to either side. It’s not enough, Alfie widens his mouth, takes more flesh between his teeth and bites hard, clamping the knot of muscle and rolling it against his tongue. Tommy’s head tips back, his chin thrusts up and he hisses hard against the pain. When Alfie releases his grip there is a satisfying bruise, deep and angry, teeth marks clearly visible. “Mine,” he hums quietly as he kisses the reddened skin.

He moves slowly to the other side, repeating the process on the other nipple, inside that sundial tattoo. He bites hard, marking just as deeply as the first time, and elicits a loader groan now that Tommy knows what’s coming. Alfie looms over him on outstretched arms and admires his work, a low rumbling sound escaping his chest at the sight of Tommy, arms pinned wide only by his desire to please – his body still, pupils blown.

He turns his attention to Tommy’s ribs, sucking a harsh mark over the thin skin where it pulls over the bone. Tommy gasps but maintains his position, and Alfie moves down his ribcage, marking him again and again, littering his torso with angry, possessive bruises. When he bites into Tommy’s shoulder, toying with the long, lean muscle that joins his neck – he extracts a stronger reaction, a strained “ _fuck_ ,” escaping those full lips. And it ought to make him relent, feel sympathy or compassion, but all he feels is _greed_ , a self-centred desire to possess this man. He’s marking Tommy’s body like he’s painting a canvas, biting and sucking until he draws out ever more choked responses.

No skin is too tender to escape his attention. He looks at the slender arms, so compliantly outstretched, palms facing upwards. He bends to place his mouth over the soft, silvery skin on the inside of Tommy’s bicep, pausing as Tommy turns his head away and clenches his jaw in anticipation. Perhaps it should stop him, but it doesn’t, Alfie bites a chain of marks that cover Tommy from armpit to elbow. First on one arm, then the other. It's clear that he's finding it difficult to stay still now. He's struggling to leave himself bared to the torture…to remain _still_ despite the pain. And it makes Alfie’s heart swell, to see Tommy hold himself firm against the obvious torment of his mouth, his teeth.

And still Tommy doesn’t move, just alternates between panting hard and holding his breath, unsure how to brace against each deep ache. Alfie doesn’t cease until Tommy is clenching his teeth, balling his fists and shuddering hard. When he finally sits back on his heels to admire the view, Tommy gasps in relief, gazing up at Alfie with wet eyes.

“So fucking good, darling, so good,” Alfie breathes, gently stroking Tommy’s smooth stomach as the pain recedes, watching him blush and glow under the praise.

He whispers back simply, “yours.”

Perhaps it’s not the response Tommy expected, but that word spurs Alfie on, again. As much as he's in awe of what Tommy will endure for him, he’s not yet ready to stop, to accept. Any trace of sympathy is overridden by his craving to mark Tommy utterly as his. It’s cruel and relentless but Alfie is a bad man and Tommy is strong and so he repeats,

“stay still and I’ll believe you.”

Tommy whimpers and turns those dangerous blue eyes up towards the headboard as Alfie crawls himself down the bed. “Open up,” he says softly, when he reaches Tommy’s thighs, and he does, of course, baring more delicate skin to the harshest of love. Alfie nips, bites and sucks his way slowly up both inner thighs, leaving a trail of crimson butterflies on the alabaster skin. And Tommy takes it, again, like he always does in the end, because it's what Alfie wants. He could move if he wanted to, there are no ties holding him down, but he is straining to do do as Alfie asked, to stay still.

“Yours,” he rasps, desperately, as Alfie bites into his jutting hip bone, and it sounds more like pleading now, his eyes closing, neck reaching up. Alfie lets the flesh go and crawls slowly upward, drinking in every beautiful bruise. After a minute’s respite, he feels Tommy dare to relax, sweat running down his neck, pooling by his collarbones. His breathing is unsteady but less laboured than before and in a cruel instinct Alfie can’t resist sucking hard on that first livid mark, the punished nipple, a final stab of pain to mark his territory.

And it’s too much, finally, more than Tommy can take. He jerks upwards from the mattress, violently, shouting, “no, enough, no,” and it pulls Alfie back from the dark lake in which he’s been swimming. He wraps his arms under Tommy, holding him up, pulling him into his body. He can feel frantic heartbeats where they are pressed together, chest against chest, Tommy breathing erratically. He is gasping into Alfie’s neck, clinging on to his shoulders as he whimpers through shuddering breaths, "I'm sorry. I'm yours. I'm sorry."

And Alfie feels himself melting, believing, “s’alright love, I know. You’re mine, I know.”

He lays Tommy back on the pillows, nudging his cheek, turning him onto his side until they are laying face to face. He keeps a hand on each shoulder, knowing Tommy needs the intimacy of touch. His eyes scan down the mottled torso and slowly back up to that jagged face. Pity pools in his stomach when their eyes finally meet - Tommy looks devastated, lost. There's an unfamiliar emotion stirring in his core ... guilt ... because he's reduced him to this, the contrast between this man and the beautiful peacock from earlier suddenly shocking. "You amaze me Tommy, you know that?" he says, and leans forward to kiss him gently, reverently, because sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Tommy looks like he might cry, and Alfie can't bear that, because he fears that he might too. Tommy’s hands are shaking and he's growing agitated, he's pawing at Alfie's hair, his neck, his back. It's like he’s searching urgently for something...approval or closeness perhaps. Alfie feels the tension rising, sloppy and uncoordinated movements, Tommy reaching down between Alfie’s legs, determined to grasp at his hardness. Alfie clutches the fumbling hand, guides it into place and adds his own fingers until there are two hands on two shafts, sliding gracelessly together as they search for pleasure, release. It’s haphazard and it’s desperate and before long they’re both panting obscenely as they stare at each others’ cocks, entwined between them. They grope and grapple with frantic, uncoordinated movements until, by some miracle, they manage to come. Alfie watches, mesmerised, as Tommy arches his back, groaning powerfully through his orgasm, relief rolling off him in palpable waves. And then Alfie too is shuddering, quietly, never taking his eyes off his man. _His man_. Finally they are both still…foreheads pressed together, lying just where they've fallen, sated and spent.

“How do you feel, love?” Alfie asks quietly, stroking Tommy’s shoulder, smoothing his hair. Looking down at the pale body slumped beside him, he’s almost scared to know. His beautiful skin is stained with bruises, dozens of them, angry, swollen, blackening.

“Owned,” Tommy whispers weakly, not opening his eyes. The faint tremble in his shoulders peters out and his breathing shallows until it is barely perceptible. "Like yours,” he adds, finally, before falling completely still, nested in Alfie’s arms, silent. And Alfie can’t take his eyes off him, can’t leave him alone, can’t fucking sleep. He strokes and he soothes and he murmurs to the sleeping man, frightened by how much he wants him, by how much he’s blazed that into his skin. He presses kisses into the dark hair and whispers useless apologies and _knows_ that he doesn't deserve him. He promises himself, and Tommy, that tomorrow...tomorrow he’ll make things right.


End file.
